The Duchess flung out exasperated hands. “Well, go then!” she said. “I find you fort ennuyant! For me, I must see Dominique, and I do not need you at all.”
“You always were an ungrateful chit,” complained his lordship. “Here am I dancing attendance on you the whole day, and all you can say is that you don’t need me.”
Léonie’s irrepressible dimple peeped out. “But it is quite true, Rupert; I do not need you. When I have seen Dominique I shall take a chair to my party. It is very simple.”
“No, you won’t,” said Rupert. “Not with those diamonds on you.” He followed her into the library, where a small fire burned, and struggled out of his greatcoat. “Where’s that fellow gone off to? Fletcher! What’s his lordship in the cellar that her grace would like?”
The suave Fletcher showed some small signs of perplexity at that. “I will endeavour, my lord ...”
The Duchess had cast off her cloak, and seated herself by the fire. “Ah, bah, I do not want your ratafia, me. I will drink a glass of port with you, mon vieux.”
Lord Rupert scratched his head, tilting his wig slightly askew. “Oh, very well! But it’s not what I’d call a lady’s drink.”
“Me, I am not a lady,” announced her grace. “I have been very well educated, and I will drink port.”
Fletcher withdrew, quite impassive. His lordship remonstrated once more. “Y’know you mustn’t talk like that before servants, Léonie. ’Pon my soul — ”
“If you like,” interrupted Léonie, “I will play piquet with you till Dominique comes!”